


That One Time Clint Barton Totally Didn't See It Coming

by Ambrosia



Series: When Something Goes Wrong, it's Usually Clint Barton's Fault [4]
Category: Age of Ultron - Fandom, Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Everybody Lives, Gen, Major Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 18:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3860533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia/pseuds/Ambrosia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Healing, as ever,” Steve says. “I was thinking about going out on patrol, actually.”</p>
<p>“Oh, ow,” Clint says automatically. “You know I think my forearm is still pretty banged up.” </p>
<p>“Good thing you were only in the circus, man,” Sam says as he passes the doorway.</p>
<p>Clint flings a pencil at the back of his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That One Time Clint Barton Totally Didn't See It Coming

**Author's Note:**

> (I'M NOT JOKING MAJOR SPOILERS FOR THE BIGGEST TWIST IN THE MOVIE)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [tumblr](http://www.valorious.tumblr.com)

“In all fairness,” Clint says. “I was totally joking, okay.” 

He’s spent a lot of time in hospitals, okay, and he hates them. The chairs are always uncomfortable, in most cases there is a heady smell of death and less pleasant aromas in the air. Clint associates it with standing around for days waiting for a family member to finally let go and greet whatever DMV attendee is working at the pearly gates.

He has his feet up on the hospital bed, ankles crossed, with half a bunch of arrow shafts in his lap. There are all his various arrow heads strewn around the room: on the bedside table, on the blankets, on the arm of his chair. “I wasn’t going to shoot you.” 

Pietro is out cold, has been for six days. 

He tells the kid everything that passes through his mind, cause that’s what you did in hospital rooms— hell, even S.H.I.E.L.D hospital rooms. He tells him about the movies that they streamed on the QuinJet for the thirteen hour flight back, about all the repairs that have been done on Avengers tower, about the nightmare back to back press conferences trying to spin Ultron as the Avenger’s Next Big Success instead of the Avenger’s Big Fuck Up. 

“I mean,” Clint says. “I might have shot you a _bit_ , but you’re a punk, but like, you’re an okay punk. You’re like a _me_ punk, not a Carol Danvers-class punk. You aren’t a Tony Stark punk.” 

“I’m fairly certain Stark wouldn’t ever let you live that down,” a voice says from behind his chair. Clint doesn’t even need to turn around to know that it’s Cap. But Clint turns to look, anyway, so that he can read his lips better. “I say _one thing_ about watching his language over the comms and he’s got a goddamn swear jar on Hill’s desk.”

“Hey, Cap,” Clint says. “How’s that perforated shoulder?”

Clint knows that all of Steve’s injuries healed within the first 24 hours, but he, like the rest of the team, are still battered and pretty bandaged up. He took a couple of glass shards to the backs of his arms, but his injuries were rather minor. 

Hell, things could have gone a lot worse. No mind control, that was a definite improvement. 

But mostly he just wants to be an asshole and remind Steve that when he’d come in for debrief after the PR disaster he’d had a two inch hole in his left shoulder that was practically see-through. 

“Healing, as ever,” Steve says. “I was thinking about going out on patrol, actually.”

“Oh, ow,” Clint says automatically. “You know I think my forearm is still pretty banged up.” 

“Good thing you were only in the circus, man,” Sam says as he passes the doorway.

Clint flings a pencil at the back of his head.

Things settle. Steve leans against the doorframe and watches the monitors beep for a while. It must be a nice break from the rush, Clint knows. Clint goes back to twisting and untwisting arrow heads and packing them into his quiver.

“Also,” Clint reminds him after a time. “Stark and I are honest with each other. He knows that I think he’s a piece of shit. We are aware of our mutual dislike. I don’t get into his workshop and tell him how to construct murderbots and he doesn’t tell me how to stick a butterfly on a pig’s ass from six hundred yards. It creates a healthy workplace relationship.”

“Your definitions of camaraderie vex my good old-fashioned, timey-wimey values,” Cap says. “Also, you constantly get into Stark’s Lab. You were quite literally in the vents last week.”

Clint swallows and holds out the pudding from Pietro’s uneaten meal. “Tapioca?” 

“Barton, I’m 97.” Steve says, “I’m not dead.”

“Well, I mean, it’s a good 97,” Clint admits. “Ninety-seven is like the new sixty. And sixty is like the new forty.”

“Your support fills me with optimism.”

“Good morning,” someone interjects. Clint and Steve look over to see Wanda, hovering, always hovering, even though technically they are invading a space she hardly ever leaves.

“Hey,” Clint drawls. He swings another chair her way with his foot. “Mini-Maximoff.”

Wanda sits next to him often. Other times she sits on Pietro’s other side and they throw whatever’s handy back and forth. Clint with his skill-set, Wanda with hers. Sometimes it’s pencils. Most of the time it’s balled up candy wrappers that Clint has calculated and molded into perfect fire-at-Stark projectiles. 

“Okay, I’m off. Behave, Clint,” Steve waves. “Maximoff.”

“Hey,” Clint calls after him. “Don’t get dead, I’m too pretty to get promoted. Cap. Cap! I’m not built for leadership!”

Cap’s gone. The machines beep. 

Clint twists more arrow heads onto more arrow shafts and throws pencils across the room so that they stick in the notice board in the shape of Cap’s shield. 

Wanda holds Pietro’s hand for a while, but eventually she too throws her legs up over his on the bed and reclines. 

The morning fades into afternoon. Clint breaks his station and has Stark’s literal army of employees send up something with caffeine. 

He’s almost created the old S.H.I.E.L.D symbol on the notice board from fifteen feet away when Pietro shoots out of bed and starts coughing up a lung, summoning the entire medical staff with blaring alarms. 

“What, kid,” Clint grins. He’s been waiting for this moment for six goddamn days, and _holy shit_ was it worth it. “You didn’t see that coming?”


End file.
